


Whatever's Left

by AlphabetSoup3



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Awkward Sexual Situations, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Slow Burn (Maybe? Idk yet), Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphabetSoup3/pseuds/AlphabetSoup3
Summary: The Lone wanderer is sure that all she has left of her life in Vault 101 are bittersweet memories of the past, until a chance encounter at the Muddy Rudder proves otherwise.
Relationships: Amata Almodovar/Female Lone Wanderer (one-sided), Butch DeLoria/Female Lone Wanderer, Butch DeLoria/Lone Wanderer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fallout 3 has my heart y'all. Canon typical description of violence in this chapter, but not much else.

Point, shoot, repeat until the mutant or sorry asshole in question is dead. It’s a simple enough routine, one that Lone was forced to get used to in a rather short span of time. An odd wave of peace washes over her as she lays completely still at the edge of a rocky cliff, rifle in hand, waiting for some mole rats or anything with a pulse at this point to pass by so she can finally have something to eat that doesn’t come from a can. It’s the rare moments like these, when everything is quiet, that she can finally be alone with her thoughts and attempt to make sense of how everything went wrong so quickly. 

Well, at least until recently. 

Lone spots a small pack of mole rats, a mother and two pups through her scope just as Butch begins to make his speedy decent downwards, the sound of his boots scuffing against the dirt and rock making her blood boil. He’s charging towards them now with nothing but a chewed up police baton, screaming the same nonsense about the tunnel snakes that always falls on deaf ears. She’s not about to risk shooting him, so she pushes herself up and tries to catch up with him. Lone can’t glide down as smoothly as he did, and she nearly falls on her face in the process. 

“The hell Butch! Can you fucking  _ wait _ please?!”

Butch is already far ahead of her. He takes a hard swing at one of them, and Lone can hear the sound of its skull cracking from the impact. He gets another one in the stomach just as it's about to pounce, and it tumbles off to the side. The smallest one goes for his ankle, managing to get a nasty bite in that makes butch cry out in pain before lone can finally pull out her rifle and take a shot, the pup’s head exploding into bits of bone and brain tissue. 

Lone stands there painting, staring at the bloody mess while Butch stabs a stim into his ankle with a hiss. After a moment, she turns her attention to him. 

“Your ankle gonna be okay?”   
  


“Yeah, not like I haven’t been through worse. Just a scratch.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “Good. Fucking idiot. Don’t pull that shit again.” He rolls his eyes, because he’s never wrong even when he clearly fucking is. She wants to kill him sometimes. She isn’t quite sure how she hasn’t already. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s eat.”

She’s long given up trying to teach him how to properly skin a mole rat without taking 3 years, so he goes to start the fire instead. They’ve set up camp underneath a collapsed highway bridge. It’s a bit cramped for the two of them, but the surrounding rock and rubble keeps them well hidden from raiders that are too chemmed up to look very hard for them. 

They watch the meat cook over the fire on a hastily made wooden boucan, the space between them silent save for the occasional crackle of wood. It’s not like the two of them have much in common, besides the fact that they grew up in the same depressing underground bunker. Butch likes cutting hair and punching shit and collecting pre-war memorabilia, Lone doesn’t know what she likes. But even though they don’t talk much, Butch never tries to leave. Maybe this makes them friends. 

They let it sit on the grill for too long, and the meat is nearly black by the time she takes the first bite, but it's the best thing she’s eaten in weeks. She watches in amusement as butch picks the charred bits off of his piece, still picky about food from his time in the vault. He’ll get used to it, Butch is tough like that. And maybe soon, she’ll get used to the way her chest tightens when he looks up from his meal and flashes her a smile that's brighter than the fire in front of them, like she actually means something to him. 


	2. Chapter 2

They head to Megaton in the morning, early enough to observe the tail end of the sunrise. The first time Lone saw it, the  _ real thing _ , it was enough to nearly bring her to tears. A picture on a terminal or a painting could never truly do its beauty justice. On the horizon, she spots the distant silhouette of Tenpenny Tower, a thin stripe of black piercing the soft orange sky. The sight of it makes her stomach churn, it has for some time now. 

She just prays to God Butch never finds out. 

When they finally get there, Lucas Simms asks her if she’s taken a look at the bomb yet, and she gives him the same noncommittal response she always does. Lone isn’t sure why she even offered to help in the first place, as if the vault would have ever provided her with the skill set for such a daunting task. She’s gotten the hang of handling smaller explosives, mines and what not, but a giant atomic bomb? It’s a bit of a stretch. 

They head into Craterside, the bodyguard’s eyes flashing in their direction on alert, shoulders dropping tiredly when he recognizes the two of them. Butch throws his bag down on the counter and begins to pull out whatever junk they deemed useful enough to trade as Moira shuffles towards them, excitable as ever. 

“Hey Moira, you ever tried disarming the bomb?”

Moira gasps in shock, looking almost offended by the question. “Oh I couldn’t do that! It would be such a blow to the people over at the church!”   
  


Lone laughs dryly. She tries her best to be patient with Moira. She’s the only person who really showed any kindness to her when she first got out, even if it was to convince Lone to be a guinea pig for her experiments. But sometimes the things that came out of Moira’s mouth truly leave her at a loss for words, and this is one of those instances.

They get what they need and get out as soon as possible, not wanting to be wrapped up in anything beyond survival-guide related activities. Lone can tell by the way Butch keeps eyeing Moriarty’s that he’s desperate for a drink (and maybe a private “discussion” with Nova), and she’s be lying if she said a drunk didn’t sound good right about now, but her thoughts keep wandering back to the stupid bomb.

She knows why, even if the truth is really fucking pathetic. The guilt she hoped might fade over time has only gotten worse, and maybe if she prevents someone like Burke from destroying the town she’ll have enough evidence to convince herself she’s still a good person after all. 

She turns around so quickly it makes Butch flinch, and based on his expression she can only assume he thinks she looks a little insane right now.

“I’m gonna disarm it. Now.” 

He laughs. It’s the patronizing kind that she doesn’t like. “You’ll blow us all up is what you’ll fucking do. Come on, man, I need a drink.” 

“Don’t call me ‘man’, asshole. Help me or don’t, but I’m going to at least try. Simms is getting antsy, I can tell, and he’s not going to want to keep us around much longer if we’re not making ourselves useful.”

He doesn’t seem to realize how serious she is, so she glares at him in silence until he does.

“...Jesus, fine I’ll help. But if we die I’m gonna be pissed.”

She smiles, even if it’s too faint for him to tell. “Heh, fair enough.”

They do their best with what they have being some pliers and a few explosives manuals. Lone is so nervous she start to shake before the pliers are anywhere near the bomb's interior, and Butch mutters something under his breath in annoyance before snatching them from her hands. She doesn’t try to protest: Butch is more adept at this than he previously let on, cutting and reconnecting wires with the kind of precision she didn’t think he was capable of as lone bites her nails uselessly. Maybe all that hair cutting translates to this sort of thing somehow. It’s a tedious job, and Butch is sweating bullets, not that she blames him. After what seems like hours, suddenly there's a click, and the soft high pitched whine of the machinery. Neither of them breathe. Without thinking, Lone clamps her hand down on his thigh and squeezes, and Butch slaps his hand over hers, squeezing just as tightly. 

Seconds go by, and nothing happens. There’s no blinding flash of light, her flesh isn’t burning into oblivion. 

They did it. 

  
_He_ did it. 

They both stand up and retreat from the murky puddle surrounding the bomb, still in shock. They’ll live to see another day. 

She starts laughing, and now she’s sure he’ll think she’s lost it. But she’s laughing anyways, because they’re alive and holy shit he actually just did that. 

He shakes his head and starts laughing too, wiping the sweat from his forehead. They can’t stop, their shoulders brushing as they rise and fall. Settlers stare at them with concern and annoyance, but for once, she couldn’t care less what they think. Because she’s hearing Butch laugh,  _ really  _ laugh, for the first time since they left the Muddy Rudder and maybe that’s all she really needs right now.    
  


  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Lone closes the door softly as Amata all but collapses on her bed, kicking off her shoes with an audible sigh. The G.O.A.T only took a few minutes for both of them, but the weeks of anxiety building up to this day have left them both ready to crash. 

She wants to crack a joke about the last question, but she knows Amata probably wouldn’t think it was very funny. The exam was strange, to say the least. Nothing they had learned in class could prepare them for what seemed to be a gage of their morals and how much they like baseball. How Mr. Brotch is able to use that information to decide their career paths Lone isn’t so certain, and she suspects he’s just choosing randomly to fuck with them. Randomly for everyone but Amata, of course. 

The frycook and the future overseer. They make a good team. 

Amata scooches over and Lone sits down next to her. There’s barely enough room for Amata, let alone both of them, and they’re pressed close together, thighs and shoulders touching. They aren’t wearing a blanket, but it’s too hot, it’s always too hot in her room. When Lone turns to look at the other girl, she can see the freckles dusting her cheeks. Lone isn’t sure how she never realized how pretty Amata was, or why it suddenly matters. Maybe it’s because of how the boys have been acting towards her lately, especially Butch and his “gang”. 

_ Butch.  _ When she spotted him with Paul and Wally harassing Amata just before the test, something snapped and she saw red. She ran towards them without a word and punched him in the jaw before he could realize what was happening. The three of them were bigger and stronger than her, but she was scrappier, biting and clawing and kicking until her vision went blurry and Officer Kendall was pulling her off of Butch. He let her go with nothing but a stern warning, not all that surprising considering she was the doctor’s kid. Before Kendall’s even turned the corner, Butch is smirking at her and Amata, saying he’ll deal with them later, even though they know he’s just trying to look tough in front of Paul and Wally and he won’t really do anything. The Tunnel Snakes might have some sort of agreement with the overseer, but whatever they have going on won’t last if he hears how they’ve been harassing his daughter. 

Lone starts thinking about all the ways she’d like to “deal with” Butch before Amata snaps her out of it by pinching her in the cheek, hard. 

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” 

“You’re thinking too loud, it’s kind of distracting.” She’s smiling cheekily at Lone now. Brat. Her two front teeth have always been too big, but Lone kind of likes it. When she can’t smile back, Amata wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I just...”  _ don’t tell her something you’ll regret, idiot,  _ “....I just was hoping I was gonna be a doctor, like my dad. I feel like he’s gonna be disappointed.”

“Oh come on, you know your dad loves you no matter what. The stupid G.O.A.T. won’t change that.”

She shrugs. “Kind of easy for you to say.” It’s petty, but they both know it's true. 

Amata doesn’t say anything back, just rolls her eyes. She turns on her terminal and plays an old holotape, a black and white movie about corpses coming back from the dead and trying to eat people. Lone doesn’t think it’s too scary, but she likes the way Amata squeaks and hides her face in the crook of her neck when it’s too gory to look. 

Amata always wonders what’s outside of the vault. Sometimes she talks about it, on the rare occasion she thinks her dad isn’t listening in. But Lone never does. If this is how things will go forever, she doesn’t mind so much. 

***

She isn’t sure what time it is or how long she’s been asleep when Butch gently nudges her awake. He’s so close that she can smell his aftershave, lord knows where he managed to get a hold of it, and she takes a deep inhale that she hopes goes unnoticed.

“Wakey Wakey. Time to head out.”

She slaps his hand away, groaning in annoyance as she sits up to rub her eyes. Butch must have woken up hours ago, his hair already greased up and styled. Lone doesn’t know why he bothers taking the time to do it anymore, but if it makes him feel better she’s not about to question it. 

As a reward for disarming the bomb, Lucas Simms decided to give them their own home in Megaton. He makes an offhand comment about it being the perfect size to start a family, but Lone manages to stay quiet, not wanting to lose their permanent residency seconds after getting it just for having a loud mouth. 

There’s only one twin bed, just like the ones they used in the vault. Butch told her to just take it, to her surprise. He’s never pretended to be a gentleman around her before, so Lone just assumed he was too tired for the awkward conversation that would occur if neither of them were willing to sleep on the couch. 

She peels the sheets back, and it’s only then that she remembers that she had stripped down to her underwear and a thin tank top to sleep. Pulling the sheets back up would acknowledge that she actually gave a damn he was looking, so instead she gets up and brushes past him, picking her suit up off the ground and slowly putting it back on. Butch is still looking at her, and she keeps her eyes glued to the ground, not wanting him to see the flush growing on her face. 

“Ready now?” he says, tugging his t-shirt down so the hem sits much lower on his hips. 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed to get this chapter posted so I’m sorry in advance for any glaringly obvious spelling/grammar errors. Be safe and wash your hands!

Lone doesn’t think much of the empty chair in the far corner of Moriarty’s when they head in to get a few cheap stimpaks from Gob. According to Gob, Burke had left the day before, barely an hour after they had fixed the bomb. Lone just figured he was going to drag his sorry ass back to Tenpenny Tower, where the ghouls would chew him up and spit him back out. They were reliable like that. 

Maybe the whiskey was dulling her wits, because she vastly underestimated his resourcefulness, and more specifically, his connections to the Talon Company. 

It wasn’t as if she was oblivious to their presence in the wasteland with the way Three Dog was constantly warning his listeners about them, but they had never been an issue for her. She hadn’t done enough to destroy the perfect chaos that kept them in power for them to see her as a real threat. 

They’re walking past the wreckage of a small farm when a bullet barely misses her temple, the sound of the shot echoing through the silent afternoon air. A pack of three of them, all in expensive suits of combat gear, all very eager to get paid. Butch and her make a bee-line for a corn silo close by, and a bullet grazes her shoulder on the way. She pulls out her pistol and starts firing, but she can barely land a shot with the endless stream of bullets flying in her direction. 

Mutants and raiders are one thing. They’re sloppy and uncoordinated, almost pitiful at times. Trained mercenaries with a thirst for blood, that’s a different story. The youngest and bulkiest of the three of them gets cocky, and charges towards her with what seems to be a giant butcher’s knife. Lone manages to dispose of him pretty quickly with a lucky shot between the eyes, but the others aren’t so foolhardy, ducking and weaving, avoiding her shots in a way Lone hasn’t mastered. 

They’re probably going to die. No, they’re _definitely_ going to die. Bullets continue to graze her skin, her ankle, then her bicep. It stings like hell, but she can’t stop firing. 

She reloads and glances down at Butch, crouched on the ground beside her, rummaging through his back pack for God knows what. Her eyes dart back to the remaining two when suddenly there’s a pair of hands sliding over her hips and down her thighs. She’s so in shock that she nearly drops her gun, and her whole body freezes.

_What the hell-_

Butch continues to frantically grope her lower body, and when his hands begin to trail dangerously close to her ass she decides she’ll definitely kill him if they don’t die anyways.

“Aha!”

He yanks something out of one of her pockets, and it’s only then that everything clicks and Lone realizes Butch isn’t actually the biggest moron on the planet. He throws a grenade at the assailants with surprising accuracy before they can register what’s happening, the intensity of the explosion sending them flying through the air. Lone has to turn away in disgust when she spots their dismembered limbs scattered on the concrete, now caked with blood.

The adrenaline fades. The pain from her wounds finally get to her. She crumbles to the ground, completely out of breath and fading in and out of consciousness. Butch gathers her in his arms. His eyes are wide, brows furrowed in concern. 

“Hey, hey, stay with me-”  
  


“Relax, I’m not gonna die. Just... a scratch…” 

She’s lost a fair amount of blood. That’s what she tells herself as she nuzzles her face against his chest, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. She closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his rapid heart beat. It’s warm, so warm, before everything turns cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's kept up with this story so far! I know that this fandom is sort of dead, but I'm hoping we can change that together :)

Lone wakes up in a dimly lit room. It’s stuffy, and smells of piss and vomit in the way only a doctor’s office could. Across from her, another patient sturs, coughing and mumbling quiet curses. She sits up, taking note of the bandages across her bicep. The wounds still sting, but not quite as much as before. 

“Good, you’re finally awake.” Doc Church. So Butch had managed to drag her back to Megaton. 

He pulls up a chair beside her, pissed off as usual, and offers her a bottle of water. “The bullets barely nicked your skin, ya big baby. Didn’t even need a transfusion. What the hell happened?” 

She takes a long swig. Her head hurts like hell. “A fight. They were good. I guess I also hadn’t eaten very much recently...or uh, drank very much.”

“Well, it’s not my responsibility to remind a grown adult that they need to eat sometimes. Now, if you’re all set, get the hell out. I need to fix that bed for someone who actually needs it.”  
  


“Where’s Butch?”

“Also not my responsibility.” 

_Ungrateful prick_. Even after she helped disarm the bomb, everyone in this town still treats her like shit. Maybe Burke had the right idea. 

“Well, thanks for the help.” Church says nothing in response, returning to his desk in the other room. 

She heads to the house, greeting Simms as he passes by. When she opens the door, it’s silent, save for the quiet fluttering of Wadsworth’s jets. He must be at Moriarty’s. 

Grabbing a nuka cola from the fridge, she sits down on the couch. It puts her on edge, not knowing where he is, but she doesn’t know if she could look him in the eyes right now anyways. 

Minutes turn to hours, and Butch still isn’t home. She looks down at her pipboy, 12:30am. She’s waited long enough.

Lone heads up the stairs to her room. Butch and her always switch off who gets the bed, but she’s decided that tonight she deserves it more. 

“Shall I turn off the lights for you ma’am?” Wadsworth calls from the bottom floor.

“That’s alright! Butch should be here soon.”

“As you wish!” Lone can still hear the robot puttering around, cleaning up the clutter that’s accumulated across the floors and tables. 

She’s barely in bed for more than a few minutes when the door finally opens. She debates pretending to sleep, but that’s something a little kid would do, so she climbs out and wanders to the railing, peering down at Butch as he shuts the door behind him. 

“Hey.” It’s gentle enough, but Butch flinches anway. He gazes up at her and their eyes meet. He’s drunk, very drunk, she can tell from the way he sways and struggles to keep his balance just standing in place. Any other day she would be amused by it. 

“Hiya.” 

“You-you didn’t wait for me.” The words slip out of her mouth before she can help it. _Shit._ He’s supposed to be the one with the shitty self-restraint, not her.  
  
He shrugs, looking down at the floor. “‘Took too long.” 

“I-what?” Of all the possible answers he could’ve given, she definitely didn’t expect that. She wasn’t even worth a decent excuse. It makes her chest tighten, burning in a way her broken skin didn’t.

“An’ too much blood...I hate blood.” 

She doesn’t want to hear anymore, doesn’t even want to look at him. She really just wants to go to sleep before she does something stupid like cry about Butch. Before she can even turn to go back to bed, Butch stumbles into the kitchen, and a bang followed by the sound of glass shattering against the hard metal floor echoes through the house. 

Lone finds Butch trying to steady himself against a chair, the table flipped to the side and broken bottles scattered across the floor. Wadsworth hovers beside him, trying to sweep up the shards of glass. She shoos him away, promising she’ll take care of the mess, and the robot leaves with a huff. 

Carefully tiptoeing around the shards, she places a hand on Butches shoulder. He turns to face her, giving her a glare that’s hard to take seriously with the flush on his cheeks. 

“‘Don’t need help. I’m a tunnel snake.”  
  
She laughs, but it’s a bit forced. The painful knot in her stomach gets tighter. “I believe you.”

He doesn’t resist when she wraps his arm around her shoulder, practically dragging his feet across the floor as she tries to guide him to the couch. He smells like whiskey, that gel he always puts in his hair, and there’s the faintest hint of something floral. _Nova._ They nearly make it to their destination when Butch trips over one of his own feet, falling face first and taking lone with him. 

The hit the floor, and it hurts as much as she expected. Lone can only hope that the impact didn’t cause any of the wounds to reopen. She shifts so that she’s on her side, facing away from him, but he tugs her closely by the bicep, making her wince in pain. They’re close enough that she can feel his breath tickle her neck each time he exhales. Slowly, his hand trails down to her waist, tugging her closer so that their hips are slotted together. 

It’s too much too soon, but Lone can’t do anything but lie there uselessly and let him do what he wants.  
  
“I thought you were gonna die..or something,” he mumbles slowly into her shoulder blade, struggling not to slur the words together. 

“Like I said, just a scratch.”

“Still...Just try not to die.” 

She wants to say something, _anything_ , but Butch seems to have already drifted off, snoring softly against her shoulder, arm wrapping tightly around her waist. It’s not tight enough to constrict her breathing, but there’s no way she can get out of his grip, so she stays like that, pressed against him with nothing to do but think. 

Somewhere upstairs, Wadsworth silently dims the lights. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to characterize Butch without it coming across as too comedic or ooc is honestly one of the hardest things about writing this. It’s why I’ve kind of kept dialogue to a minimum throughout the story, but I’m hoping to change that soon!


	6. Chapter 6

Lone came as soon as she heard the distress signal. It took some time, but somehow she was able to convince the overseer to step down from his position without any more blood being spilled. The old man was a manipulative coward, but in the end, his love for Amata trumped his lust for power. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

She was a hero….but she had to leave. At least, that’s what Amata told her. 

Amata hasn’t been overseer for more than a few minutes, but Lone can already see the shift in her. She’s more calculated, already willing to play the game. And already willing to put the opinions of the few people left in the vault over 19 years of friendship, all in the name of democracy. She sounds so dismissive, almost smug, and it’s enough to send anyone over the edge. 

Maybe it’s out of spite, maybe it’s because she has nothing left to lose when Lone grabs her roughly by the shoulders and kisses her, nothing more than a firm press of her lips against Amata’s. Amata doesn’t resist or try to shove her off, but she doesn't react either. Lone just assumed she was too in shock, with the way she could feel her muscles tensing underneath her fingers. Across the room somewhere, she could hear Susie Mack’s surprised gasp. She doesn’t care.

She stays like that for a long time, trying to mentally jot down every detail about Amata before it was too late. How her lips were a little chapped, the way she smells like that clinical bar soap everyone in the Vault used but with a hint of sweetness underneath that’s uniquely Amata’s. How pale she’s gotten, and how the sharp lines of her cheeks and collarbone jut out more than the last time she saw her. Lone was always the one to remind her to eat when she was stressed. 

She doesn’t want to pull away and see the look of pity and confusion Amata will give her, but she does. Amata takes a step back, crossing her arms over herself protectively. Lone doesn’t want to make a scene. She’s not going to prove that everything they think about her in the vault is true, that she’s some sort of homicidal maniac, so she walks away without another word. From this point on they’re strangers, the Lone Wanderer and the new Overseer of Vault 101. They can’t coexist. 

Butch is still in the hallways, his switchblade out ready to fight in a war that won’t happen, seemingly ignorant of everything that just occurred in the other room or completely unfazed.

“I uh, gotta go Butch. It was good seeing you again.” She tries to keep it brief, so he can’t detect the tremble in her voice. 

Butch smiles at her. It’s not patronizing like the others, instead it’s warm and strangely reassuring. He places a hand on her shoulder and starts to speak, but her brain is still struggling to process the fact that she’s leaving and she can never come back. It occurs to her, distantly, as he rambles on, that Butch might be her only friend. The only person still willing to look her straight in the eyes. Part of her wants to ask him to come with her, but not even Butch deserves to have to live out there, to see what she’s seen.  _ No,  _ she thinks,  _ he’ll be safe here.  _

When Butch has stopped talking, she nods in agreement, hoping it’s an appropriate response. Butch seems satisfied enough, clapping her roughly on the shoulder again before wandering off to continue scouting the hallways like the good political rebel he thinks he is.

He’s still the same Butch he was when he was a kid, with that icy exterior he tried to present to everyone having melted since she left. Distance from Wally Mack has been good for him. She hopes he never changes. 

When the taunting screech of the door finally stops, Lone finds herself unable to convince her feet to move. She sits down in the dirt, surrounded by blackened skeletons and faded yellow picket signs. After being in the wastes for so long, she wouldn’t be surprised if one of the skeletons decided to get up and launch itself at her. She doesn’t think she would put up a fight if it did.

It’s only then that she’s forced to come to terms with the situation, and the realization feels like a punch in the gut. Her wails echo through the tunnel, bouncing off the rocky walls and the giant metal door behind her. She claws at her face, and cries until her throat burns and all she can taste is salt. Maybe if she stays for just a few hours longer, something will go to shit and they’ll need her help again. She can pretend Amata isn’t a heartless monster like her father and that Lone isn’t still in a bit in love with her anyways.

***

She doesn’t fall asleep, too focused on the sound of Butch’s breathing. She doesn’t have the protective cushion of alcohol in her system that Butch does, and she can’t find a comfortable position on the cold metal floor. The more she tries to squirm away from him, the more he tries to squeeze her closer like an overgrown stuffed animal, and the friction between their hips is having an unintended consequence that’s difficult to ignore.    
  


She’s not...unfamiliar with how male anatomy functions, her father was a doctor after all, and at one point she wanted to be one too. None of the torturously awkward lectures her father sat her down for when she was younger about the “different parts” boys and girls have could prepare her for something like this. 

Butch lets out a long sigh, the contrast of the hot puff of air against her frigid skin sending a shiver down her spine. Her heart is beating rapidly, and it feels hard to breath. She needs to leave now, before he wakes up and makes things even worse. Miraculously, after a few tries, she manages to yank his arm off of her without waking him. She knew he drank a lot, but she still managed to underestimate the sheer amount with the way he lies boneless on the floor.   
  
She’s tired, but she can’t stay here or she’ll go insane, so she grabs her bag and her rifle. Hunting always helps when her thoughts are running rampant. 

Just as she’s about to open the door she looks back at where Butch is lying on the ground. She’s not strong enough to lift him up without some help, but she can at least make sure he’s a bit more comfortable. She grabs the blanket from the bed upstairs, draping it over him, and crouches down to pull it over his shoulders. He looks so peaceful.

She nudges him a little, and when he doesn’t budge, she leans in towards his face, brushing the loose hairs away from his forehead before kissing it gently, her lips barely brushing against his skin. 

“Later, drunkie,” she whispers, and after a moment, she’s gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh this chapter was the hardest one to write by far, and I’m honestly not crazy about it even after some editing. Still, it was necessary for the story to progress!

When she had left home the first time, all Lone had with her was a baseball bat, the overseer’s pistol, and the faded Grognak the Barbarian comic in her dresser. She didn’t exactly have a plethora of personal items with how much the overseer valued functionality and tidiness, but there were a few things. Mostly photographs. A picture of Amata and her playing on the floor when they were toddlers. Another with her dad after she’d killed her first radroach with a bb gun. 

It had felt good, killing the roach. There was a thrill to it, even if she wasn’t in any immediate danger, and she liked hearing the crunch when it’s disgusting little head split open. Her father had called her a big game hunter, and that felt good too. Praise from her father was something of a rare commodity, especially as she got older. 

She didn’t feel the same rush now, perched on a cliff and picking off mole rats one by one. The rifle is heavy, and this is the only way she can hold it steady, lying flat on her stomach with it pressed tightly against her shoulder. The first kill is easy enough, the others take a bit more work, scattering in a panicked frenzy as the shot rings through the air. She doesn’t like killing them, they’re just trying to survive as much as she is, but it takes the edge off knowing she was able to kill them before they could get their claws into her. 

People are even worse. Butch seems to get a kick out of killing raiders, toying with them, mocking them. Telling them how screwed they are when he finds them, laughing when they beg to be spared. It honestly makes her a bit sick to her stomach, but at least he doesn’t string up their bloody corpses like trophies. Lone has no interest in playing God, and killing doesn’t boost her ego the way it does for him. It’s not her job to decide who deserves justice and who doesn’t, no matter how sadistic and cruel the raiders are. She knows she isn’t particularly special, just happens to prefer staying alive over dying, and they tend to pose an obstacle in that regard. 

_ Better them than me. _ It’s a popular phrase she’s picked up recently.

She needs to go. It’s only been an hour or two, but It isn’t smart to stay out in the open by herself like this. Lone isn’t obtuse enough about her own feelings to pretend she hasn’t been stalling. Her hope is that by the time she gets back, Butch will be hungover and won’t have any memory of their brief but painfully awkard encounter. If her dad wasn’t full of shit and there really is a God, and that God isn’t a complete asshole, maybe he’ll decide to be merciful and Butch will have wandered off somewhere. She needs some time to think, or maybe get piss drunk herself. It has been a while. 

There is no God of course, and if there is, he’s a malignant piece of shit. Butch is in the living room, having migrated from the kitchen floor to the couch, giving her no way to escape interaction unless a stealthboy were to magically manifest in her pocket. He still has the blanket on, even though it isn’t really cold in the house, wrapped tightly around him like some kind of protective armor. Wadsworth is in the kitchen wiping down some nonexistent stain on the floor. 

She opens the door slowly as to not to draw too much attention to herself, cringing at the drawn-out whine of the rusty door hinge. It takes him a moment to even register she’s there, his reflexes still recovering. Once he does he stands up stiffly like a soldier in attention. 

She tries to open her mouth to speak, talk about something meaningless just to occupy the space between them. Before she can ask him something stupid like if he needs another pack of smokes, he’s walking towards her, in front of her in only a few long strides. The movement is sudden enough that it triggers her fight or flight response. She has to fight the urge to flinch. It’s not like she doesn’t trust him, but her time out here has made her a bit too alert for her own good. 

He inhales, and his eyes squeeze shut, as if what he’s about to say physically pains him. Lone takes note of the shadows under his eyes, and the faint red lines on his face from lying against her leather shoulder pads. She wants to trace along them with her fingertips. 

“Look, I just want you to know that I used to say a lot of stupid shit but I ain’t that type of guy. I would never y’know-try something on a girl if I knew she didn’t want it. I was just drunk out of my mind. Won’t happen again, I swear.” 

Shit. He thinks he tried to fucking molest her. The pieces are blurry, and he’s trying to jam them together in all the wrong ways. If anything, she’s the one who should be held accountable for letting things go further than they needed to. Lone just wants to lay in this pit and wallow in it, but naturally, Butch has to keep digging.

“Just say the word and I’ll be outta your face and you’ll never have to see me again. But I really just wanna fucking forget about this so-”

“Butch for Christ’s sake you didn’t do anything! You fell on the floor and passed out and I put a blanket on you because it was easier than trying to carry you to the sofa. You’re a lot heavier than you look.” Her voice breaks off a bit at the end from strain. She only ever seems to get through to him when she’s screaming at him, and even then there’s a 50/50 chance of success. 

“I-really?” The relief in his voice is annoyingly endearing.    
  
“Yes! So can you please fucking relax now?” 

He sits back down, “Alright, alright. Sorry.” He lays back into the cushions, scratching the short hairs on the back of his neck. His hair, usually teased up and gelled hangs flatly over his forehead, deflated. She’s never seen it like this before. 

She sits next to him. Their thighs touch but she doesn’t move away, so he doesn’t get the idea that she’s scared of him or something. Butch’s arm is splayed across the backrest of the sofa, other hand still running through his hair. The back has gotten a bit overgrown, Wadsworth could probably cut it for him. 

She turns her pip boy radio on, thankful that it’s one of the softer songs. Billie Holiday, her favorite. She hums along, the melodies etched into her brain with the way Three Dog only plays the same few songs on constant rotation. Butch pulls out a metal canteen and takes a swig of what she hopes is water. She doesn’t detect any strong odor from the drink, at least. 

When the song is over and Three Dog starts with his usual (and rather obvious) public service announcement not to try to pet mutated black bears, Butch yawns and Lone figures that’s her cue to leave. 

“Alright, I’m gonna head upstairs. Try to get some sleep. Still a few hours before daylight.”

He seems taken aback by that, even though he’s clearly struggling to stay awake. “Yeah. I guess”

She glances over at him. Butch is looking down at his boots, with an expression she can’t really read.

“Is there a problem?” 

“Nah, there ain’t a problem, it’s just-I dunno.”

“Come on Butch, use your words,” she says, drawing out and exaggerating each vowel. It’s patronizing as hell, but he makes it too damn easy. 

“Oh fuck off! That shit with the Talon Company’s got me kind of spooked alright? So can you just stay here with me?” 

“Like..on the couch? together?” Jesus, if it wasn’t obvious that she was a chronically touch-starved virgin before, it definitely was now.

“Yeah, nosebleed. On the couch.” He mimics the mocking tone she used moments before. Karma had a way of being distributed rather quickly out here. 

Putting the flask down on the floor, he gets up, motioning for her to lie down on the inside. He isn’t giving her an out, but she isn’t asking for one. She takes off her boots, not bothering to untie the laces, and lays down on her side, curling her arms up to rest under her cheek. Butch takes off his jacket and lays down beside her. There isn’t a millimeter of space between them, no way to pass this off as a friendly exchange, but it doesn’t exactly feel romantic either. He wraps his arm around her, in what feels like an effort not to fall off the side more than anything else. Lone’s eyes flutter, shut allowing herself to gradually fade out of consciousness. She isn’t thinking about Burke, or Roy Phillips, or Amata. For once, her mind is completely clear. 


End file.
